The dream is always the same. We're in a fight with the Gonsalvo tribe, losing, trying to create a line of retreat, but they're everywhere, herding us. It's foggy, and I don't see the walls of the fort until they're practically on top of us. The searchlight comes on and I go belly-down in the dirt. The first volley of gunfire drops a dozen of us; one of them is my mother, tumbling to the ground like a rag-doll as the back of her head explodes. Boss Hurgin, still standing, bellows, “SCATTER!” The shout draws every gun on the wall onto him and he does a sort of twitching dance in place as all the world's bullets tear through him. I can see light through him before he finally falls. It didn't happen that way, of course, but it seems real enough in the dreams. The tribe tries to run and is shot down by Waltzers or hacked to pieces by Gonsalvos. Tana flops down near me, shot through the gut. Our fingers are almost touching and I want more than anything to take her hand, offer what comfort I can, but the searchlight is sweeping back and forth and I don't dare move. We lock eyes. She's swallowing down little pained sobs, trying not to draw attention to me lying unhurt beside her. The shooting has slowed now, and the Gonsalvos are retreating, Tana gives me a little smile, obviously forced, and I lay there, wanting to touch her but too afraid to budge, while the light sweeps back and forth, back and forth...
Bindi joined us this morning. Passing through Fort Mitchell wouldn't have been a problem for her, but Big Sky Daddy alone knows how she found us with a whole city to get lost in. She comes across so spacey, with her “everything's wonderful” attitude and her flower obsession, but she's a lot more capable than she lets on. I was glad to see her again. The feeling caught me by surprise. The sailor, Roland, is still here too. I thought he might ditch us once we made it into Milwaukee, but for all his grousing about how he prefers to work alone, he's still with us. I'm not reading too much into it just yet. He isn't hanging around out of affection. He knows what this world can do to loners, and if he forgets, the bruises all over him will remind him. Marv is as bouncy as a little kid, so excited to be in the big city for the first time that every moment is a thrill and he hardly knows what to look at next. It's kind of cute. He's a hard guy not to like.
We need a grubstake, something we can sell or trade to pay for gear, food, lodging. We'll need to scavenge for it. We pick out a huge deserted building called the Bradley Center. They tell me it used to be some kind of “sports complex”, a place where grown men played some sort of game with balls while hundreds of paying customers watched them. I don't say anything, but I know when my leg is being pulled. I just hope the name of the place is a good omen.
The door gives on the first shove. Inside, the floor is tiled as far as I can see in all directions, cracked in places, and filthy with hundreds of old footprints. The air is thick with dust and a hint of mildew – the roof must be leaking somewhere. If there was ever anything worth stealing here, it's long gone. There's nothing around but an ankle-deep pile of filthy rags. At least I can't smell any trace of human waste. That's a good sign; we can still hope we won't run into any squatters as we go further in.
“Should we split up?” Marv asks. “We could search the place quicker.” He's keyed up again, excited by the prospect of exploring.
I shake my head at him. “Not a chance,” I say. “We don't know who else is here. We stick together.”
He ducks his head like I've scolded him and makes up for it by taking point. We prowl around for over an hour without seeing anything valuable. There are signs of other people – more footprints, more little piles of discarded junk, scorched tile where some fool built a campfire indoors – but nothing recent. Marv tries every door we pass, but none of them lead anywhere we want to go. I'm about to suggest we give up for the night and find a secure spot to grab some sleep when he tries one last door, marked “STAFF ONLY”, and finds it locked. That has to be a good sign. Scavengers don't bother locking doors when they've picked a place clean. We might be the first ones here.
The door is thick, sturdy, and fitted so tightly in its frame that I can't fit the edge of my crowbar in anywhere – the kind of workmanship you just don't see anymore. There's no way we could break it down, even if we were willing to make that amount of noise in an unfamiliar place. I take out the thick hunk of wire I always carry and set to work on the lock. I twist and turn, fiddle and finagle, certain that every passing second is making me look more and more foolish to my companions. My hands start to sweat; if I screw this up, they'll never believe I'm good for anything but stabbing.
The lock finally gives.with a soft click.
Inside, the air is fresher than we're used to; the sealed door kept out the mildew odor of the rest of the complex. The drawers in the big desk at the center of the room are locked, but my crowbar pops them open. Bindi takes a heavy case out of the deepest drawer; inside are a knife engraved “USMC” that she promptly dubs “usmic” and pockets, and a big old-world pistol. I start digging through other drawers while Marv and Roland argue over the gun.
Bindi opens a big metal cabinet and gasps. We gather around her to see what she's found.
Water. Gallons at least, clear and clean and beautiful, still sealed in clear plastic jugs. I believe we're in business.
Bindi joined us this morning. Passing through Fort Mitchell wouldn't have been a problem for her, but Big Sky Daddy alone knows how she found us with a whole city to get lost in. She comes across so spacey, with her “everything's wonderful” attitude and her flower obsession, but she's a lot more capable than she lets on. I was glad to see her again. The feeling caught me by surprise. The sailor, Roland, is still here too. I thought he might ditch us once we made it into Milwaukee, but for all his grousing about how he prefers to work alone, he's still with us. I'm not reading too much into it just yet. He isn't hanging around out of affection. He knows what this world can do to loners, and if he forgets, the bruises all over him will remind him. Marv is as bouncy as a little kid, so excited to be in the big city for the first time that every moment is a thrill and he hardly knows what to look at next. It's kind of cute. He's a hard guy not to like.
We need a grubstake, something we can sell or trade to pay for gear, food, lodging. We'll need to scavenge for it. We pick out a huge deserted building called the Bradley Center. They tell me it used to be some kind of “sports complex”, a place where grown men played some sort of game with balls while hundreds of paying customers watched them. I don't say anything, but I know when my leg is being pulled. I just hope the name of the place is a good omen.
The door gives on the first shove. Inside, the floor is tiled as far as I can see in all directions, cracked in places, and filthy with hundreds of old footprints. The air is thick with dust and a hint of mildew – the roof must be leaking somewhere. If there was ever anything worth stealing here, it's long gone. There's nothing around but an ankle-deep pile of filthy rags. At least I can't smell any trace of human waste. That's a good sign; we can still hope we won't run into any squatters as we go further in.
“Should we split up?” Marv asks. “We could search the place quicker.” He's keyed up again, excited by the prospect of exploring.
I shake my head at him. “Not a chance,” I say. “We don't know who else is here. We stick together.”
He ducks his head like I've scolded him and makes up for it by taking point. We prowl around for over an hour without seeing anything valuable. There are signs of other people – more footprints, more little piles of discarded junk, scorched tile where some fool built a campfire indoors – but nothing recent. Marv tries every door we pass, but none of them lead anywhere we want to go. I'm about to suggest we give up for the night and find a secure spot to grab some sleep when he tries one last door, marked “STAFF ONLY”, and finds it locked. That has to be a good sign. Scavengers don't bother locking doors when they've picked a place clean. We might be the first ones here.
The door is thick, sturdy, and fitted so tightly in its frame that I can't fit the edge of my crowbar in anywhere – the kind of workmanship you just don't see anymore. There's no way we could break it down, even if we were willing to make that amount of noise in an unfamiliar place. I take out the thick hunk of wire I always carry and set to work on the lock. I twist and turn, fiddle and finagle, certain that every passing second is making me look more and more foolish to my companions. My hands start to sweat; if I screw this up, they'll never believe I'm good for anything but stabbing.
The lock finally gives.with a soft click.
Inside, the air is fresher than we're used to; the sealed door kept out the mildew odor of the rest of the complex. The drawers in the big desk at the center of the room are locked, but my crowbar pops them open. Bindi takes a heavy case out of the deepest drawer; inside are a knife engraved “USMC” that she promptly dubs “usmic” and pockets, and a big old-world pistol. I start digging through other drawers while Marv and Roland argue over the gun.
Bindi opens a big metal cabinet and gasps. We gather around her to see what she's found.
Water. Gallons at least, clear and clean and beautiful, still sealed in clear plastic jugs. I believe we're in business.